Fire Escape
by Creature of Habit
Summary: One Shot. Quite dark. Heero angst. Please read the cautionary note at the beginning.


_Please be cautious. This piece of literature is geared for mature readers and contains content regarding self-mutilation. I intend no harm here and thus I encourage those that are prone to said condition to egress if there is fear it might trigger. This is more psychological than explicit – though there is some detail that could be disturbing to sensitive readers. Please be safe. _

_I used Heero as a muse for this. From the stacks of Duo stories on the subject he should have been the obvious choice. But I think Heero would be just as – if not perhaps more – prone to acting out against himself. I doubt Heero has much understanding of emotional coping. There is also the fact that Duo touches a sore chord in me. Had I tried to channel him I would have been quite worse for the wear. That poor kid has been through too much. _

_I rated this Teen. If I should up the rating please tell me. _

_Recommended Song: "Throw Me Away" by Korn. _

_**Fire Escape**_

_By: Creature of Habit_

_The perfect soldier. He had done much to earn the appellation. His tactical aptitude and battlefield genius stood unequaled. His reputation preceded him. The long list of casualties – gardens of carnage – bore telling testament of his methodical precision. To his creator he was a machine. To his comrades he was omnipotent. To his enemies he was a weapon of mass destruction. _

_The Japanese teen was a lot of things to a lot of people. _

_But of all these things none pronounced him human. In their minds he could not be capable of enduring psychological trauma. He would not be permitted to feel emotional pain. He was not granted a pardon to be fragile and broken. It was not admissible that he be frightened or helpless. To the outside world he did not repress his feelings. People had natural impulsion to assume he had no feelings to repress. _

_Or at least he had fooled them into thinking so. Or perhaps they had fooled themselves. _

_His hands bore the blood of hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Each of them had done their share of damage. Each of their minds and souls imbrued in a phlegmatic slaughter that did not distinguish transgressor from innocent. Children defending paradigms and paragons that none understood. Bruised and bleeding in places no medication or bandage could reach. _

_Because of that he had turned to this. This being the razor blade. He could not define or put a name to these things. He had no sentient grasp of these deformed and malnourished sensations. He could not quite put his finger on it. He just understood that the pulsing sight and pungent scent of blood – his blood – quieted the raging beast. Bloodstains made it possible to make it through another night. _

_Instead of the lancing sting he had anticipated he felt nothing. This never ceased to disappoint him. His oppressed and persecuted emotions cried out for release. The discordant clamour in his mind ached for hurt manifest to substantiate these deep and impalpable entities. It was analgesic to his stricken heart. It was chloroform to his battered brain. _

_The pursuit of pain dulled. His focus centered square on etching long crimson lines that would later metamorph into pale knurled scar tissue. Oceans of Prussian blue traced the copper pebbles that cascaded the length of his forearm to pearl about his fingertips. Cracked lips parted in a silent scream as tears tumbled onto the trademark green tank. _

_Sometimes he did it for minutes. Sometimes he stretched it out over hours. The steel blade had become the sole friend of the misunderstood and maltreated pilot. He did not fear judgment here. He had no fret about someone questioning the tears. He had not the torment of contending to interpret and translate the corkscrew static and scrambled signals. The small piece of metal was sole witness to his suffering._

_His breath hitched as he shifted position. The endorphin high had begun to recede. Pain melted slow and sure into his mangled arm. He grunted as he opened the first aid kit and made to treat his injuries. On the surface it made no logical sense. To cause so much damage and then impart such tenderness. But albeit intangible there was a method to the madness. He could not reach the wounds on the inside. So he transposed those lesions and lacerations on the outside. _

_He could see it here. He could heal it here. _

_His mind floated to the other pilots. Each one had a reason for fighting. Each one had a goal and a purpose – ambitions and aspirations that stretched past their duties as combat puppets. He had none of this. He fought for the peace of the colonies and nothing more. He had no dreams or desires. He had no plans for a future. He supposed that was for the best. His chances at a normal life had been doomed from the moment he met Dr. J._

_He could never adjust. He was much too maladapted. _

_Saline leaked from beneath long sable lashes. He was a blooming success as a soldier. He was an utter failure as a human being. His mind scoured his memories seeking resolution – screaming out for some justification as to the reason he had been subjected to this. Robbed of his childhood. Bred to be cold and calculating. To murder and be murdered. Duo spoke a lot about God. Could God be this blind? Had he done something to merit being so damned and forsaken? _

_In the death throes of neurosis he failed to notice a more poignant truth. _

_One did not need to put on a uniform and come bearing weapons to be a soldier. In a sense each soul was a soldier in its own right. The struggle of life – the war fought against the self – was the hardest battle of all. It was not conditioning or munitions or tactical plans that produced a soldier. These tools did not beget his genius. These procurements did not engender a hero. It was his resolve to fight. It was his strength of conviction and the nobleness of his character. It was his determination to contribute. It was his courage to sacrifice. _

_The solider he was in life far exceeded the solider on the battlefield. _

_Curling up on the seat of his Gundam he pulled the blue blanket around his shoulders. The antibiotic ointment stung as it sank into the gaping gashes. He breathed a sated sigh of relief. He did feel ashamed for doing it. But desperation made one do strange things. The instinct to subsist eclipsed anathema and remorse. He buried his head into the bunched cotton and folded his knees deeper into his chest. His right hand cradled his gauzed limb as he drifted into a benumbed sleep. _

_Life sometimes comes at you like a burning building. Flames licking your flesh and smoke so thick and hot your lungs all but incinerate. The atmosphere so scorched and feverish you feel close to spontaneous combustion. But the fever is on the inside. The burning comes from within. You cannot make it to the exits. The windows are occluded in red. The temperature is rising. The oxygen is rapid depleting. You are becoming a furnace. _

_In that critical moment you must find the fire escape. _

_**FIN**_

_I know it was a bleak read. I might revise this later. I put it together in just two days. But I still hope you enjoyed it. I would appreciate a review if you are up to it. I am thinking of adding on to this in the future. I am not sure yet. It depends on whether or not anyone would be interested enough to read it. I could use some feedback on that possibility as well. Oh ... and if you find any spelling errors or whatnot please let me know. I normally check before I upload but I am short on time and in a rush right now. Thanks in advance. _

_This story is dedicated to a friend who struggles with cutting. In fact I dedicate it to all those who are in such pain. Keep safe and stay strong. I understand you are going through a lot. But there is always hope. I wish you the best. _


End file.
